No. Mademoiselle could teach her nothing about Paris. You could not even cross a street without risk of life, so many were the omnibuses and automobiles. In every shop you were a stranger to be robbed. There was no air in Paris. You could not sleep for the noise. And then—to live in a city of a hundred million people and not know a living soul! It was a mad-house matter. Again no. It grieved her to part from mademoiselle, but she had made her little economies—a difficult achievement, considering how regardful of her pence Madame had been—and she would return to her Breton town, which forty years ago she had left to enter the service of Madame Morin.
“But after forty years, Toinette, who in Paimpol will remember you?”
“It is I who remember Paimpol,” said Toinette. She remained for a few moments in thought. Then she said: “C’est drôle, tout de même. I haven’t seen the sea for forty years, and now I can’t sleep of nights thinking of it. The first man I loved was a fisherman of Paimpol. We were to be married after he returned from an Iceland voyage, with a gros bénéfice. When the time came for his return, I would stand on the shore and watch and watch the sea. But he never came. The sea swallowed him up. And then—you can understand quite well—the child was born dead. And I thought I would never want to look at the sea again. So I came here to your Aunt Morin, the daughter of Doctor Kersadec, your grandfather, and I married Jules Dagnant, the foreman of the carters of the hay … and he died a long time ago … and now I have forgotten him and I want to go and look at the sea where my man was drowned.”
“But your grandson, who is fighting in the Argonne?”
“What difference can it make to him whether I am in Frélus or Paimpol?”
“That’s true,” said Jeanne.
Toinette bustled about the kitchen. Folks had to eat, whatever happened. But she went on talking, Madame Morin. One must not speak evil of the dead. They have their work cut out to extricate themselves from Purgatory. But all the same—after forty years’ faithful service—and not to mention in the will—même pour une Bretonne, c’était raide. Jeanne agreed. She had no reason to love her Aunt Morin. Her father’s people came from Agen on the confines of Gascony; he had been a man of great gestures and vehement speech; her mother, gentle, reserved, un pen dévote. Jeanne drew her character from both sources; but her sympathies were rather southern than northern. For some reason or the other, perhaps for his expansive ways—who knows?—Aunt Morin had held the late Monsieur Bossière in detestation. She had no love for Jeanne, and Jeanne, who before her good fortune had expected nothing from Aunt Morin, regarded the will with feelings of indifference. Except as far as it concerned Toinette. Forty years’ faithful service deserved recognition. But what was the use of talking about it?
“So we must separate, Toinette?”
“Alas, yes, mademoiselle—unless mademoiselle would come with me to Paimpol.”
Jeanne laughed. What should she do in Paimpol? There wasn’t even a fisherman left there to fall in love with.